


Home

by Purseplayer



Category: Glee
Genre: Bash - Freeform, Body Worship, Episode Reaction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1466143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purseplayer/pseuds/Purseplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaction to 5x15 "Bash".   Blaine's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

When Kurt is released from the hospital Blaine stays glued to his side.  He can’t bear to not be with him right now, to help and support and touch and know that Kurt is real and alive—that his eyes will still glitter when Blaine makes him laugh.  That blood will rise to flush in his cheeks on those rare times Blaine manages to elicit a blush.  That his heart still drums the steady beat that means home under Blaine’s cheek.

Burt understands.  It takes substantial effort for Kurt to usher his father out the door and into a nearby hotel that night, despite the fact that there is no room to offer in the loft, and the look he shoots Blaine as he leaves makes Blaine’s heart pound with the weight of responsibility.  Kurt is his now; Kurt is theirs, and Burt understands.

Blaine wonders if Kurt understands, waiting anxiously for an offhanded, dry-humored dismissal.  He can’t not sleep at the loft tonight, in Kurt’s bed, curled warm beside him, in _their_ bed, but he can’t say no to Kurt, either.

The dismissal never comes, not so much as a hint of it.  Instead Kurt orders Rachel away with no small amount of command and sits close to Blaine on the couch with his legs over Blaine’s lap, quiet, with his head on Blaine’s shoulder. 

Blaine breathes in the scent of him with relief, with love, with so much love and pride.

This man who rests in his arms, who leaves himself bare and open to Blaine’s love: this man is so strong.  And sometimes Blaine starts to think about it and he can’t stand it.  There’s too much intensity, too many feelings, too much of Kurt and everything Kurt represents.  Blaine could lose himself for hours or days or weeks in the humble act of loving him, of appreciating him.  He wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Blaine thinks it’s funny the way people try to stereotype them and people like them.  As if the man Kurt is in all his strength somehow makes Blaine the one who is weak; as if Kurt must be weak if it is Blaine who is strong.  They don’t understand the inspiration of Kurt’s strength, the force of it, how it makes Blaine in turn a better, stronger man.

He hopes that loving him gives Kurt the same.  Kurt wouldn’t say it, maybe, not in so many words.

When Kurt falls asleep with his nose pressed into Blaine’s neck, breathing in little wheezy snores, Blaine places a hand on his cheek, gentle, and kisses him awake.  Kurt whispers, “take me to bed,” so Blaine slides Kurt’s feet to the floor, helps him to stand, and together they somehow make it to the bedroom.

Blaine thinks Kurt is more awake than he seems, but he collapses sprawled on the bed with his wounded face pressed into a pillow, and there is no way he’s okay with sleeping in the outfit he’d insisted on wearing home from the hospital.  So Blaine rolls him over, starts on the many buttons of his vest while Kurt sighs and blinks open tired eyes.

He means to help Kurt into his favorite pair of pajamas, but once Kurt’s chest is bare Blaine can’t help but pause for a moment to touch him, take him in.  Most of the damage those ignorant assholes caused was to Kurt’s beautiful face and his neck, but there are some bruises here, too: across the curve of Kurt’s shoulder, faintly purpling the expanse of his left torso.  Blaine gasps, even though it’s not that bad, and traces the colored skin with his fingertips.  It’s still soft and warm and familiar to the touch, the sight of it a betrayal.

Blaine ends up touching Kurt all over, feather-light, tracing the lines of his collarbone, the pink of his nipples, the dip of his navel.  Eventually he stops and settles with his ear pressed against Kurt’s chest, his hand splayed on Kurt’s stomach, listening once again to the comfort of a heartbeat more precious to him than his own.

“Blaine?” Kurt says, faint and groggy, and there are fingers cupping the curve of his skull.  For once, Blaine wishes his hair gel away.

“Shh,” he says, turning his head to press a kiss over Kurt’s heart.  It feels so nice he leaves another, and another, a trail of love across Kurt’s chest, up to his neck to tongue at that spot that drives Kurt crazy, just below where the bruises start.  Blaine can’t think about the bruises.  Not the bruises there.

Kurt makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whine and breathes Blaine’s name again.  Blaine steals it from his lips, a kiss that is lazy from Kurt, imperative for Blaine.  His mouth ends up somehow near Kurt’s ear, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to hear Kurt say his name again.

He wants to hear Kurt say his name forever.

“Shh,” he repeats when it happens, and shimmies down to work off Kurt’s pants.  It’s not an easy task but one he mastered long ago, except he forgets about Kurt’s shoes and has to stop to remove those too, and his socks.  Blaine mouths over Kurt’s toes—too-large but, like the rest of him, perfectly imperfect—even though he knows he probably shouldn’t given that Kurt has just been in a hospital.

He needs to love every part of Kurt.  Every part.  Still whole, still here.

From there he traverses Kurt’s long, pale legs; the brush of hair against his cheek, beneath his lips, is a comfort.  The jut of Kurt’s hipbones know his mouth well by now, and he takes the time to leave a bruise of his own there, claiming: _this is mine.  You can’t touch this._

Kurt is writhing, both hands worked into the stiffness of Blaine’s hair, eyes closed and still, Blaine thinks, somewhere between awake and asleep.  When he nudges Kurt’s legs apart to worship his balls, nuzzling and licking and breathing in Kurt’s scent, Kurt whines; his calves settle atop Blaine’s shoulders.

Blaine takes his time mapping Kurt out with his tongue, dipping in and around and through every plane and crease, his hands caressing the expanse of Kurt’s sides, smoothing down his thighs to his knees and back up again.  He talks to him too, quiet little words of encouragement only he knows Kurt loves: _That’s it, sweetheart.  I’ve got you.  Don’t hide anything away_.

Kurt is his, his to treasure and love and know and keep safe.  Kurt gives himself to Blaine freely, and Blaine feels another rush of vicious, violent anger at the thought of anyone taking anything from this man by force.

His hands settle on Kurt’s hips, gripping there, and he finally begins to travel the length of Kurt’s cock with his mouth, easy and slow, never enough.  He waits for Kurt’s cries to strengthen, almost too-loud, and then he shushes him again, swallows him down.

It takes only moments for Kurt to find his release, as Blaine knew it would.  When it is over he sinks, body relaxing into the dark of their blankets, and Blaine finds his hand, kisses him kisses him kisses him until Kurt’s lips barely move, and he is asleep.

Blaine drapes himself carefully around him, reaches to fold the blankets over to not-quite-cover them, and tries to sleep.  But the collar of his sweater itches and his pants feel too-tight and he doesn’t feel close enough, never close enough, so he inches away and strips down.  He presses his naked body against Kurt’s—better, much better—and tries to make the blankets into a nest for them the best he can.

When the task is done Blaine closes his eyes.  Kurt is still breathing; his heart is still beating.  He is safe.  He is home.

Blaine sleeps.


End file.
